Category Archives: Uncategorized

Music in the Park

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Our stay in Delhiwas just long enough to visit with the family, and exchange clothes for something heavier before into the setting out for Himachal Pradesh.  But Delhiwas at its best.  There are perhaps two or three weeks at the end of March when the weather is perfect – not too cold…not too hot – and the air fresh and clear.  


One evening we went to an open air classical Indian concert in Nehru Park. Gerard happened to see the free event advertised in the Sunday paper. The concert was dedicated to the famous shenai player from Varanasi, Bisimillah Khan, who transformed the shenai to the solo classical music instrument it is today. His death in 2006 at the age of 90 was marked with a national day of mourning; he played for both the Independent celebrations at the Red Fort in 1947 and again at the Golden Jubilee in 1997.  During the interlude was an excellent documentary of his life and music.  The featured artist was flute player Pandit Hariprasad Chaurasi who we’ve seen a number of times in Boston. Even at his advanced age, he could still produce magic out of a bamboo flute.  It was very pleasant to be sitting in the park in the cool evening air, listening to one of India’s top classical musicians. 
We never know when illness is going to strike and our Indian family has been hit hard this year.  The grandmother passed away just days before we arrived and now the mother has been diagnosed with some strange auto immune condition that’s attacking her liver. The doctors want to put her on steroids to weaken her immune system, setting off a controversy among the family about what the best treatment would be – steroids or holistic. The daughter, who was here from Bangalore, was also herself suffering from two angry looking boils on her arm.. Meanwhile, the other side of the family, who we often stay with, was having their own problem – their younger son is suffering from an undiagnosed condition producing fever and loss of weight.
Gerard and I were sorry to leave the family dealing with all these issues, and hope that when we return in three weeks things will be a little better for them all. 

Varanasi: City of Death and Liberation

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After our experience in general seating, a night train in 2AC was blissfully comfortable!  But the “weather disturbance” followed us.  Gerard watched a lightening storm from the window beside his bunk, while I slept soundly above.  Arriving just before 5 am, the now familiar Varanasitrain station was easy to navigate in the dark. Too early to go to our hotel, we waited until light. Gerard adeptly handled the hustling rickshaw drivers and they left us alone.
Standing beside a toothbrush seller, I watched the deaf mute sitting cross legged on a mat, a bundle of branches from the neem tree beside him. His handicap didn’t seem to impair his ability to do his job with great efficiency and ease.  He’d select a branch and with precision chop it into equal lengths and add them to the rapidly growing pile in front of him.  He seemed optimistic…and early morning business was good.  Positioned at the station exit, a steady flow of travelers stopped for a “toothbrush”.  Holding up one finger to indicate the price, he patiently let the discerning customer disrupt his pile of sticks, rifling through to pick exactly the right one.  Women wanted a skinny stick, men a more substantial one.  An old man with softening teeth wanted the edge of the stick shaved.  For an hour I watched in fascination.  The pile of rupees he kept under a piece of newspaper in front of him grew rapidly and became 5R….10R notes as he made change.
A boy with a pile of newspapers came by and gave him several.  He stuffed them away in a bag beside him.  Later another boy dropped off the Times of India in English.  He put that away too…when business slowed down later in the day, I presumed he’d read them When he went off for a few minutes to relieve himself, he put a stone on top of the newspaper covering his rupees, confident no one would take them.  It was now lighter,   and time for us to snap out of our trance and get going…
Entry into our beloved city was rougher than usual. We had never been here during rain nor had we been here when it was cold – and on our arrival it was both. Walking through the muddy lanes at six in the morning to our guesthouse was not the welcome mat that we were hoping for.  Surprisingly even though they refused to take reservations on the phone, we had the “best room” on the fifth floor overlooking the River Ghanges.
My trusty guide/maintenance man set up a washing line, and rewashed the floor…and the “clean” towels …and we settled in. When I think about it, it’s amazing that Gerard can travel in Indiaat all, he’s such a neatnik! Then he proceeded to wash his sneakers…Later in the day as the sun came out, and the sweepers had done their job, the city we remembered began to reappear.
Longing for live classical Indian music we finally had the opportunity our first evening here. It was the last day of a prolonged Holi celebration which included four performing groups on a boat facing the ghat. First the solo instrumentalist played a shenai, and then came a violinist, followed by a young energetic sitar player. The last performer was delayed by another freak thunderstorm. We hustled back to our guesthouse and when it stopped raining we could hear a female vocalist through our open window.  Of course we hope to hear more, but it looks doubtful.
Our fourth time in Varanasi, we find it an easy place to be in.  There’s so much activity on the street that just going to and from wherever we need to go is fascinating. And even in our hotel room, the monkeys entertain us, hanging on the bars in front of the window, sitting with their feet dangling in, talking to us. Even though there are many places to visit, it’s not a necessity. Gerard says that staying in Varanasireminds him of the three months he spent in Marrakech one winter.  It wasn’t so much about what to do; it was much more about just being there.    On the other hand, I feel I should be doing something; still learning that you don’t have to make things happen….sometimes they happen of their own accord.
It’s easy to be social here – most of the shopkeepers are more than happy to enter into conversation with the tourists. Both of us are amazed that merchants remember us – even from several years ago.  “Hello, I remember you from two years ago, you bought the blue bedspread!” The CD shopkeeper smiles and says, “And when did you return?”   
But as in any city the exploiters are lurking, looking for an opportunity. I’m well aware that you’re not supposed to take pictures at the Burning Ghat, where the cremations take place, but I go ahead and do it anyway.  And this time I got caught! Three men pounced on us. They ranted and raved about how illegal it was to take pictures at the cremation site and what a big mistake we’d made.  “The police will demand a large fine and destroy your camera. But….we all can a big hassle with the police if you make a donation to the hospice or buy kilos of firewood.”  “How much?” Gerard asked.  “3000 rupees!”  Greed had once again foiled their plot!  If they’d asked for 300 R they might have gotten it.  But 3,000?!  Gerard said, “Forget it, we’re going to the police,” and started to walk off.  Two of the three saw the futility of their ploy, and didn’t follow.  The third, with breath smelling of alcohol, persisted. “But sir, we can avoid big problems with the police if you make a donation.”   Again, Gerard says, “How much?”  And now it’s 500 rupees!  He confronted the man, “Have you been drinking?”  Denying it, the drunkard shrank away.  Once again the tour guide comes through; he’s good at deflecting difficult people and situations.
Our friend from Agonda, Johnny, showed up for a couple of days and one of the things he really wanted to do was see the cremation site at the Burning Ghat.  Making our way through the back alleys, we came on to the back side through the mountains of wood.  Young boys approached us wanting to guide us through the ritual – but of course for a “donation” for the hospice. For the most part, we managed to avoid all of that and stood quite close to a funeral pyre. This isn’t something morbid but for the western eyes it’s very sobering to see bodies slowly melt away in the flames. Even if it’s only for a moment, the inevitability of death cannot be denied.  When the skull finally explodes in the heat, the Hindus believe it’s the final release of the soul from its physical entrapment.  All three of us were moved and silent. We left feeling a little more in touch with reality…although I’m sure what we witnessed affected each one of us differently.
People come to Varanasito die; they believe that if they die here their soul will be liberated.  Therefore, one could say that this is a city of death – or liberation!  No matter where you are there’s funeral processions making their way to the cremation ground. Somewhat similar to the funeral processions in New Orleans, there is a joyous character to it all.  We even met an English father and son, who had brought the grandfather’s ashes to put in the Gangesat his wish.   So other than all of the other fascinating aspects of this city, it really is renowned for death and liberation, making it necessary to go and see the Burning Ghat at least once.
Both of us have had a long standing interest in the Muslim saint, Kabir, who lived in Varanasi.  So with that in mind we thought we would go out to visit his birthplace.  As it turned out it was a long dusty rickshaw ride and the very large memorial/meeting hall was more about the person who did the fundraising than it was about Kabir. Close by we stopped in at a Kabir Sahib Ashram where a young man spoke good English and tried to explain to us the lineage of which they follow. All in all interesting, but not really worth the hike out there.
50154  Coincidentally, there’s a temple immediately next door to our guest house and we noticed over the door the name, Shibendu Lahiri.  Curious we went inside in the evening and there was a mass of pictures of the swami order of Kriya Yoga, of whom the most famous in the west is Paramahansa Yogananda (Autobiograhpy of a Yogi).  His Master’s Master was Lahiri Mahasaya. Here it was a strange blend of Hindu lingam, marble statues and pictures of several past yogis…and Einstein!  But their devotion still seemed very Hindu based, including waving incense, conch blowing and bell ringing.  Not exactly, what I understand the practice of Kriya Yoga to be!  But we still like to sit there and experience the intensity of the sound for a moment overwhelming the oscillations of our busy minds. 

Bhedaghat – Rivers, Waterfalls….”and they had a Swimming Pool!”

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Bhedaghat is a nondescript small town, but a popular Indian sightseeing spot for two reasons:  sits beside a river cutting through a white marble gorge. But the biggest draw is a very impressive waterfall, especially now during the dry season. 
Hotel Marble Rock

After viewing a decidedly grubby hotel with larger than life pictures of Osho in the lobby, it’s not a hard decision for me to agree to indulge in the more expensive option.  After an unexpectedly taxing day of travel, we deserve a night of relative luxury.  And the hotel, already with standards of cleanliness, comfort and service beyond our usual experience, also boasted a pretty garden complete with a swimming pool!  The unheated water was a little cool but I had to take advantage. 
Uncharacteristically, we enjoyed hanging around the hotel and its lovely garden overlooking the marble gorge as much as exploring the town. And the restauarant was of the same quality. Comfortable bed, endless supply of hot water, soft pillow and a delicious dinner was savoured!  During the night everyone was shocked by a passing thunderstorm. It was so strange to see the garden dripping with rain in the morning. Little did we know that this storm would follow us to Varanasi.
The next morning, we walked down to the waterfalls, and it exceeded expectations. I loved the power of the rushing water, the heavy mist wafting through the air – it was like a miniature Niagra Falls.  We both imagined what a sight it would be after the monsoon.
Going down to the ghat, we joined a couple of Indian business men take a short boat ride through the gorge.  Then it was time to leave our the seduction of expensive hotels with beautiful vistas and head back down to Jabalpurto catch the afternoon train to Varanasi.   Bhedaghat was all about water…

Pachmarhi: Flowers and Faded Raj

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My guide has pulled it off again. During the long journey to get here I may have had a few doubts, but Pachmarhi is definitely worth the trek. This is our third visit to Madhya Pradesh, and P is its only hill station; very popular with Indian tourists, but like other places we visited in the state, not frequented by western tourists. Maybe because it takes a certain amount of some effort to get here. Few people speak English and the food is characteristically HOT…you know you’re in the middle of India.

 We were drawn by the guide book description of “an idyllic plateau in the heart of the Mahadeo Hills” – with plenty of country walks. Walking in the surrounding hills, we found a remote cluster of caves, where Sadhus lived and performed their practices. 

 

After the busyness of Bhopal and Pune, the much appreciated silence was broken only by birdsongs. Another day we walked down a ravine to a natural temple hidden among the boulders where priests were chanting constantly.  

The most surprising walk was to the five caves from which Pachmarhi gets its name. (Panch means five). According to legend, the Pandavas from the mythical saga, the Mahabharata, spent their exile in these caves. After seeing Ellora and Ajunta, these caves were merely holes carved out of the rock…not impressive. 



But the flower gardens at the base of the hill were spectacular! We’re unaccustomed to seeing anything flowering in Indiaduring the dry season, and especially not a formal English style garden.  

The guidebook talks about “the faded Raj atmosphere” – and at first it looked as if it had faded completely out of sight.  But these gardens, a few bungalows, and a neogothic church confirmed the presence of the Raj.


Hearing an Indian tourist describe the thundering waterfall in nearby Bhedaghat, we decided to leave Pachmarhi a day early to visit it.  Bhedaghat is three hours up the train line we were taking to Varanasi, so it didn’t seem a big deal to go there the day before our reservation. But first we had to come back down off the plateau to Piparyia.  This time we decided to take the local bus –  twice as long as the taxi, and a bumpier ride but there would be more room to spread out.  True at first. But after multiple stops in little villages the bus was packed, with a large old lady squashed in beside G & I and the aisle full to overflowing. 
Then at Piparyia we made the mistake of buying “general seating” tickets. It was a simpler transaction…and we were only going three hours.  How bad could it be?  But we’d never ridden unreserved general seating before.  It was so crowded we couldn’t even board much less find a seat.  So hoping no one would notice, we jumped into a “sleeper” coach, one class higher. But this was no better, once again reserved seating was almost as crowded as general seating, and no one wanted to make room for us.  

So we ended up standing in the corridor beside the toilets leaning against our cases.  After a while some boys invited Gerard to sit with them in a cramped space beside the door.  I sat on my case wedged in beside a sleeping boy, trying to avoid tripping up the continual flow of food vendors, blind beggars and passengers using the toilets. Then three railway employees came and reclaimed their precious space on the ground ordering the boys, including Gerard to leave so they could sit down and eat their lunch. We were both leaning on our cases again.  After they finished eating, the railway employees took pity on us and ordered two young boys sharing a pull out seat against the window to get up and let the old Western tourists sit down.  Reluctantly they relinquished their seat and for the rest of the journey we perched on it together…and grateful.  The next time we see overcrowded trains with people sitting in the doorway we will much more empathy for their situation.
After three long hours it was a relief to disembark in Jabalpur.  But our journey was not over….we still had an hour’s rickshaw ride.  With no buses or taxis, this was the only public transport to Bhedaghat. An eager young rickshaw driver was waiting by our train; we didn’t haggle much over the price, we just accepted.   A bumpy road accentuated by no shocks left on the rickshaw –  but we were on the last leg of our journey and would soon be in Bhedaght.  Then suddenly, a loud bang and the rickshaw pitched toward the ditch…not a flat tire this time, the whole wheel was broken! Rather than yell and swear, the driver politely apologizes, “Sorry, Sir!” And standing in the road hails down another rickshaw – already full of people, but we’re squeezed in with our bags.  Further down the road, we transfer to yet a third rickshaw…..and finally reach Bhedaghat!  

It’s a Long Way to Pachmarhi

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Getting to Pachmarhi involved a number of long bus rides – first to Pune, where we spent one night.  Pune is still the headquarters for the followers of Bhagwan Rajneesh (Osho), and although he died 25 years ago, there is still a large community here. After being thrown out of the USand trying to gain entry in 22 countries, Osho finally settled here.
This being the first city we’ve been in since Bangalore over six weeks ago, the city seemed louder, dirtier and more crowded than ever, but over and over again there were helpful people: the rickshaw driver who found us a hotel when it seemed hopeless – everything was full or beyond our budget; the young boy who stopped on his bike, “What do you want, Auntie?”  and then proceeded to help us find a pure veg restaurant. 
One of the benefits of traveling is that essentials are reduced to a minimum – finding a clean and affordable hotel and, within walking distance, a veg restaurant. On our way to dinner, a group of young men on motor scooters raced round the corner and catching a glimpse of me in the growing dusk, shrieked, “White Girl!” – a refreshing change from “Auntie.”
The following day we boarded an overnight sleeper bus for Bhopal, fourteen hours away.  It’s a little hard to explain but basically there’s curtained cubicles with just enough room for two people to lie down and barely enough head room to sit up. I boarded with trepidation at the prospect of being captive for so long. But surprisingly enough it was almost fun… We lay chatting late into the night and finally drifted off with the jostling of the bus. Waking early in the morning as the bus pulled into a roadside breakfast stand with only a few hours to go.  It was nowhere near as bad as I’d feared.

We’d passed through Bhopalon the train before, but I had no desire to stop there.  The spectre of the 1984 Union Carbide chemical disaster was still too real, and in my mind caste a long shadow over the city. But now it was unavoidable because we didn’t feel like taking another seven or so hour journey immediately.  


Bhopal has a strong Moslem legacy emphasized by three mosques, one of which is said to be the largest in India, (although the people in Delhi would not agree….). We were able to walk around all three mosques, watching young boys reciting the Koran, and rows of men kneeling in prayer. We didn’t have a chance to get much of a sense of Bhopal except that it’s yet another Indian city that can’t keep up with the growing population.  It’s the cities that continually remind us of how over populated India is – 1.1billion today and still growing.

The next afternoon we took the train to Piparyia, riding sleeper class for the mere four hour journey.  Buying tickets at the train station is never easy – long, long lines at each counter, the occasional outburst when someone tries to cut in at the front of the line.  But I’m amazed at the patience of Indians to wait.  Noticing a significantly shorter line for “current reservations” we join it. Everything seems good.  The form’s filled out correctly and with the usual pushing and shoving, we hand it over – only to be told, “Come back in 15 minutes!” I demand, “Why?” but he’s not about to give me an explanation. Fuming at Indian bureaucratic inefficiency, I join Gerard back at the end of the line. Two boys have explained to him that “current reservations” means you can only buy the ticket an hour before departure.  Meanwhile the annoying clerk closes his window altogether…now I’m really loosing my patience….reopening up only just in time for us to get our tickets. 

Settling in on the train, our compartment began to fill to overflowing -fifteen people crowd into a space designated for eight. But it’s reserved seating! Further adding to our confusion, when the ticket collector came around, he only looked at four tickets– including ours, while the rest of the passengers merely nodded, and he walked away.  Striking up a conversation with a boy across from us, he explained that the rest of the passengers had monthly passes and they crowd on wherever they can. He reminded us that it was Holi in a few days (the festival of color, one of India’s largest holidays) and everyone was going home to spend it with the family.
The boy who spoke good English told us he worked for the Secret Service.  Inquiring about our experience in Indiahe seemed somewhat surprised that we’ve never had any real problems and meet only friendly people. His job focuses around tracking the Naxalites, a Marxist faction that is particularly violent.  By the time we reached Piparyia he’d managed to put me on edge and arriving at night didn’t help.  We still had 50 Km to go to Pachmarhi, no hotel reservation and had not eaten dinner yet.  The crowd of hustling taxi drivers was threatening to me.  Gerard picks one with a small private car, another passenger and a trunk full of heavy packages.  My unease was mounting as we set off down a dark winding road, in the company of two men we knew nothing about. Some way down the road the driver stopped right in the lane of traffic and turned off the engine. With no explanation, he got out, along with the other passenger, leaving Gerard and I shut in the car in the darkness.  Now my paranoia is in full swing.  Immediately I thought, they’re abandoning us – we’re going to be robbed and murdered! But if they wanted to do that, wouldn’t they throw us out the car and drive away themselves – not the reverse?  My blood sugar was really low- I needed to eat…
The reality was a flat tire – too much weight in the small car.  The driver proceeded to change the tire in the middle of the dark road – cars, trucks, bicycles with no lights, cows – all passing dangerously close. Finally we’re on our way again, but I still have a sense of foreboding.  Arriving in town, our fellow passenger, who had hardly said a word to us during the journey, proceeded to help us find a budget hotel and negotiate a discount on our behalf – and the restaurant was still open!  I wasn’t very pleased with the room, but I kept it to myself.  The next morning, by daylight, everything seemed a lot better.  I realized the fellow on the train had definitely unnerved me. 

Above the Haze in Mahalabeshwar

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The 12 hour private bus from Margoa in Goa would take us only 48 KM from our next destination, Mahabaleshwar, a small hill station on a remote plateau in the western ghats.  “We will arrange for a taxi, included in the price,” the bus company told us. But we couldn’t get reassurance from the non English speaking conductor about when or where we’d get off. In the dark, the four lane highway is treacherous; the conductor takes our bags out of the storage and points across to the distant far side, where a small bus depot and restaurant are lit up.  With my heart pounding, I follow Gerard into the median, dragging my case.  “Run!” he shouts…and we make it to the other side.  

Inside the restaurant, a man listens to our request for a taxi to Mahabaleshwar.  “But where are your tickets?”  “We gave them to the conductor on the bus”….we have no record of our reservation.  It doesn’t look good and we suspect we may have to pay extra for the taxi now.  The man is in no rush to help us, and speaks virtually no English.  “15 minutes!” he says… It’s getting late and we only have a tentative hotel booking.  30 minutes go by…  Hungry, tired and nervous that I may have nowhere to sleep tonight, I keep hassling the man….  For two hours, his response continues: “15 minutes.”  Finally a jeep arrives and we’re transported effortlessly up the winding mountain road to the plateau.  The driver drop us off in the center of town, and to our surprise make no demand for payment.
Mahalabeshwar, famous for its strawberries and clean mountain air, is a hill station developed by an Englishman in the 1830s.  It’s the highest point in the western ghats, with wonderful views into the valley below were it not for the inevitable haze. 

Gerard tries to make a joke with the young Indian boys: “Do you know why there is so much haze?  It’s due to all the damn cigarette smokers in Mumbai!”  The joke falls flat.  
One afternoon, we took a 7 Km walk through the woods to a beautiful viewing point. The guidebook told us we probably wouldn’t meet another living soul – and it was right.  Walking along a path that was once a road, long since abandoned, we passed by the crumbling gateway to Nugent Lodge, the one time residence of some Englishman.

Another day we took the local bus to old Mahalabeshwar, a peaceful hamlet with an old Shiva temple sitting on a ridge, overlooking the valley stretching far below. 


On the way back from the temple, we passed a strawberry farm offering large of glasses of fresh strawberries and cream which was irresistible. We ate in the sunshine sitting in a garden surrounded by hollyhocks in full bloom.  A Hallmark moment! 

An old Indian couple (older than us) from Long Islandapproached us in the bus station to share the cost of a sightseeing taxi with them for the day. Ken came to the USin 1969 via Canadawith $300 in his pocket. Arriving at JFK unable to speak English, a taxi driver found him a room for the night, another man helped him get a job – within 6 months he’d brought over his wife and child, and by the end of the first year he owned a duplex in the Bronx and was working as an accountant at Chase Manhattan where he continued to work his way up.  Today, two sons are eye surgeons and his daughter, a producer for NBC Dateline. 

He had a wealth of amusing stories including on his first flight out of India he sat next to a white woman – the first he’d ever seen. She took her shoes off and he stared at her feet – she had no toes!  Being an outspoken man, he asked if all white people had feet like that.  She laughed and explained that she was wearing “knee-highs” and took one off to prove she wasn’t a freak, with webbed toes, after all! 

In the evening, Indian tourists are bused in from the resorts scattered around the countryside.  This is definitely an Indian tourist destination. The majority are newlyweds from Mumbai and Pune, the bashful young brides in their iridescent nylon honeymoon suits.  After five days we were glad we’d made the effort, but once is enough – we doubt we’ll return anytime soon.    

A Fine Balance…

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We’ve found life to be so simple here that it was an easy decision to stay for another week and skip the planned trip to explore Ganpatipule, another beach town five hours north of here. Others who’ve been there tell us, “After Agonda, why bother?”
Crabs eggs in the sand
It’s not just the lovely beach and warm water; there seems to be so many interesting people that pass through here…and not only once, they continually return.  Our Polish neighbors have explained to us that there’s a whole Czech community here that dates back to the late 60s beginning with a political activist who came here after he was expelled by the Communists.   Now it has become a well-trodden path between Pragueand here!
The other night, while eating dinner at Fatima’s, a man across from us said, “You don’t remember me, do you?” Pretending my mouth was full, I struggled to place him – unsuccessfully.  “Two years ago, in Almorra!” he prompted.   “Of course…that little restaurant with a hole in the floor where the food was passed up from the kitchen below!” We’d spent only one meal with him talking about how to get to the next town up in the Himalayas. A Dutchman with a Russian wife, spending the summers in Siberia teaching yoga, he’s been coming to Indiafor the last twenty years.  He discovered Agonda around that time.   
What is so special about Agonda?  All these people returning year after year, ourselves included…Somehow it has managed to maintain “A Fine Balance” (Gerard just finished reading the book) between a simple fishing village and a tourist destination.  While other towns in Goa have gone completely commercial, this town has remained “mom and pop”.  Unlike other tourist spots along the coast, here the village extends right down to the beach. Each morning, when I go out for breakfast at around 7.30 am the school children are lining up outside the Catholic School next to the Church, led in morning prayer by white robed nuns.  This morning, Ash Wednesday, Fatima and her daughter-in-law have already been to church. Serving in the little restaurant they are dressed in their decorative Sunday best, ashes smeared on their foreheads.  

lunchtime

There is the ongoing conversation: how much longer can it possibly last?  Each year there is more commercialism. And with renewed threats of a large development at one end of the beach… Surprisingly, the locals are not in favor, even though it would mean more money and business for them.  So in the meantime, we just enjoy it while we can.

For the past month the weather here has been pleasantly mild, for Goa. But as of yesterday, realty struck with the temperature at the beach soaring above 100F with high humidity.  It’s finally time to begin traveling, north from Goa to our next destination, Mahabaleshwar, a hill station, which promises to be decidedly cooler


World War II in 2012

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Meeting people in Agonda is simple; daily we hear all kinds of interesting stories personal and otherwise.  Last night over dinner we met a 71 year old German lady from Frankfurtwho, without provocation, launched into a tale of her childhood completely disrupted by war. Lydia’s father served in the First World War and refusing to serve in the second, was imprisoned by the Nazis.  As she related horrific first memories of Frankfurt being bombed and stepping over dead bodies lying in the street, it suddenly struck us that we were hearing yet again the impact of the War from another perspective. 

Maria and her daughter, Christina

Isn’t this so familiar to what we heard three days ago from our Polish friends, staying in our guesthouse?   Over dinner Christina and her mother, Maria, talked about the horrors of occupation first by the Germans and then the Russians.  Maria’s husband was imprisoned by the Nazis; then after the war served briefly with the British Artillery Corp, was repatriated back to Polandand thrown into jail by the Russians. 


A few days before this, we heard Audion’s chilling family history of his father’s collusion with the Germans during the French occupation.  Audioin’s great uncle became the Secretary of State under General Petain in the Vichy Government, opening the door for Audion’s father to follow suit.

Lydia’s first memories in Frankfurt are of the city library being bombed just before she was going to enter the building.  Up until it was rebuilt in 2005, the remains of the arched entryway to the library remained as a ghostly reminder of that day.  She could never get the sight and smell out of her mind.  How could one forget such terror at only four and a half years old?  Maria in Poland, now in her early 80s, who was robbed of a marriage, now refuses to speak either Russian or German, even though she knows the languages.  Even her daughter, Christina, who is quite multinational, has a difficulty with the Russians in spite of loving the culture.  Audioin was born long after the War in France, but grew up in a family of denial because no one wanted to admit to his father’s collusion with the Germans.  This was compounded by the fact that his mother fought in the Resistance, festering an air of dysfunction in the family which resulted in a complete breakdown of communication.   

It’s amazing to us that even after 60 years people are still carrying the burden of World War II.  For Gerard, Vietnam has had its impact – although quite distant – and to meet contemporaries that are still playing out the effects of WW2 seems amazing.  I was less impacted than some British families because due to my father’s blindness he didn’t serve in the war.  Nevertheless, I still have strong memories of bombsites and rationing and my father’s stories of his experience during London bombings.  But for these people, it’s more like a wound that’s never healed.  Public, political and national tragedies, after all, consist of a multitude of private, domestic and individual tragedies.

Graham Paige on the Beach

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Koala Beach

 Kola Beach is a very picturesque cove with a look of the South Seas and an atypical (for Agonda) high end clientele. To get there, we waded across an estuary and climbed up over a steep headland offering an elevated view of Agonda and down again on to a small beach.  A strip of sand is bordered by the sea on one side and a fresh water lagoon on the other.  Framed artistically by leaning palm trees, surf spraying over stark black rocks.  The scene is so perfect it looks landscaped – at the edge of the beach, canvas white and green “huts” are distributed among the trees and a palm-canopied café with comfortable bamboo chairs face the ocean.  There is an air of exclusivity, confirmed when we discover the price of the huts.  Sitting among the privileged at the café, we feel like crashers to a celebrity wedding.  

Lagoon

As the sun begins to sink in the sky, a throng of men, women and children emerge from their huts and march toward the lagoon.  It’s time for the evening swim.  Have we broken through the time barrier and landed in postwar Britain at a Butlin’s Holiday Camp or a Communist Russia summer retreat beside the Black Sea?  It’s time to return to the plebian familiarity of Agonda.  As we reach the estuary the tide has come in – hoisting cameras and water bottles on our heads we wade across not knowing how deep the swirling waters are.  The sun sets over the water as we complete the journey back up Agonda beach and arrive at our guesthouse in the dusk.


Dinner after Koala Beach 


We’ve only met one other Argentinean before in India– he was a crazed pothead in McLeod Gunj who thought the lack of Internet service was a sabotage attack of the Indian Government.  Herman  is quite different.  He and his wife have been on the road for twelve years, driving an old Graham Paige car made in the USin the late 1920s.  During this time she’s given birth to four children, the first an 11 year old boy was born in North Carolina enroute to Alaska, the last Wallaby in Australiatwo years ago.   The car is in pristine condition, and has been customized for their needs.  The four children sleep on a wooden platform fixed to the roof of the car, the parents sleep in inside the car.  A trunk is fixed to the back of the car and opens out to form a table with shelves to hold all their cooking equipment.  On one side of the car, sits a cooking stove.

Zapp Family and Graham Paige


Herman and Paloma Tinkering 

Herman wrote a book describing the first phase of their travels – to Alaskaand then through South America – self published it in China.  He says proceeds from the book, “Spark Your Dream” finance their journey.  His wife handles a web site and publicity.  While in the US, the family was on Good Morning America, and NPR.  All along the way, they attract people who support their venture, charging nothing to fix the car, providing free passage from one country to another by boat etc. Herman quotes “The worst the road, the friendlier the people; the better the road, the more distant the people.”

They are living at the far end of the beach where there are always several trucks and campers lined up.  A large hut made of palm branches provides temporary lodging beside the car.  One evening we were invited for tea Argentinean style – strong yerba matte brewed in a small clay pot and drunk communally through a metal straw.  Reminiscent of a scene of the late 60s along California’s Route 1 without the drugs. They are natural parents and genuinely enjoy being with their children 24/7 – homeschooled by mother, Calendaria, in Spanish, and only speaking English with Herman.  Infectiously enthusiastic, Herman only speaks of challenges not problems.  Four young children, an old car that constantly needs maintenance and cramped living space (the car) would probably drive most of us to insanity…But they don’t just cope, they thrive! Their website is worth checking. http://www.argentinaalaska.com/

Gerard Entertains

Same, Same…But Different

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Agonda Beach
Returning for the fourth year, Agonda has the comfort of an old friend – the conversation is easy to pick up again. Like the expression that many of the merchants use, Agonda is the same…yet different.

Dominic and Rita

Each year there are more beach huts and restaurants but so far the character remains the same. Our guest house – the home of Dominic and Rita – is only a dusty walk away from the beach.  Families of pigs trot through the yard, large monkeys with black faces lurk in the bushes eating the leaves, and an early morning bird chorus fights with the noise of the crows.  It’s not difficult to create and maintain a schedule here, with plenty of time for swimming and walking on the beach in the morning and late afternoon when the sun is less fierce.


Gerard, the ‘Swami of Mundane Things’ according to a good friend back home – manages to find things to repair in the room – towel racks, squeaky hinges, and after, Salou, the cleaning girl has cleaned the room, he discretely asks for a rag and disinfectant and continues to wash the bathroom down again.  He’s even been pressed into service to relocate a flying cockroach bigger than your thumb from the curtain rail of our bedroom

Salou on her way to work

Meanwhile I grab my shopping bag and head to the greengrocers to buy deliciously fresh fruit and vegetables. Taking a break from eating out three times a day –  fresh yoghurt in clay pots from the corner store with fruit for breakfast and at lunchtime a huge vegetable salad with samosas fresh cooked in the vil vvillage each morning.  



The two English couples we first met three years ago are here again.  We all look slightly older and grayer….but everyone in high spirits to be back in Agonda…Without effort, we pick up where we left off.  The old couple from Swedenwere enthusiastic to see us.  Ingrid crippled with arthritis, had a stroke last year, but still musters the energy to come down here.  Gerard was particularly pleased to reunite with Johnny, who we have known for the last couple of years, a very sweet Buddhist from England who’s had more than his share of hurdles to negotiate. One being an over production of iron in his system which is slowly poisoning many of his organs. He’s found that the weather and the overall atmosphere here have been very healing.  Unable to travel through Indiaany more he’s content to stay here into the rainy season in May/June.  Many hours have already been spent sitting in the shade of an Indian style covered patio at the guesthouse listening to each other’s story.


Gerard and Johnny


Our immediate neighbors in the guest house include a Polish woman who works in films, right now translating from Czech to Polish, a Jamaican woman living in London, and an Italian lady who comes every year and does yoga.  A new arrival is “Snake” with a huge snake tattoo winding up his arm.  He’s traveled extensively in Indiasince 1971 and is an  goodsource of information.  We like the diversity of  those who find their way to Agonda.

A Buddhist couple from Francea little younger than us come to Indiaprimarily to be with the Dalai Lama. Oudwan is French.  Danielle is an interesting combination of Chinese, French and German.  They have wonderful stories including being married by His Holiness 20 years ago while onboard a plane enroute to India.  The way they describe their experiences with the Dalai Lama is very similar to our own with our spiritual Master.  From Bihar, where there’s a huge Buddhist center, they’ve taken a rest in Agonda because Oudwan has a persistent tendonitis like condition in his legs.  This prevents him from walking far or carrying anything.  Swimming was recommended as therapy. 

Lunch at Blue Planet

We had lunch with them at our favorite and only organic restaurant that is pleasant walk into the jungle.  Over the meal, they both told us their background which left Gerard and I with our jaw on the table.  Like our friend Johnny, they’ve had way more than their share of personal problems and have not come out completely unscathed.  For those of us who have blinders on, it’s a sharp reminder of how many wounded people have to pick themselves up daily and get on with it…with enthusiasm.



Danielle and I hike to a nearby cove, leaving the men behind relaxing.  Nice to have someone with my energy to hang out with!  We have birthdays two days apart and as a fellow Libran and fervent believer in astrology, she analyzes my personality with uncanny accuracy. 


Fatima’s General Store cum Restaurant

Every few evenings, we wander up to a restaurant cum general store, which is a central meeting place, partly because it is one of the oldest and least pretentious in town.  A sliver of a building, with a dark interior, steamy with the cooking that takes place in a tiny area in back…cramped with a couple of wooden tables and benches… a wall of yellowing photos of long gone hippie visitors.  When Agonda was a simple fishing village with few if any other restaurants this was a stop for the locals.  It’s still frequented by the locals and the travelers who’ve been coming here for twenty years.  Newbies like us go there to feel the remnants of the old days.. Sometimes the conversations can be provocative sitting on the steps outside where the air is cooler.


One night Fatima, our original guesthouse owner celebrates her 58th birthday with a party.  Everyone who has had any connection with Fatima – a large percentage of tourists as well as locals – is invited and fed a festive dinner in her open courtyard.  The local Catholic priest formally announces her birthday while she and her husband (uncharacteristically wearing a dress shirt instead of his usual white singlet) stand stone faced beside the priest.  In front of them is a chocolate birthday cake sitting on a pedestal under a crocheted sky blue doily.  A huge display of flowers surrounding the numbers “58” is made entirely out of cut fruit.  A small home made hot air balloon is lit – at the first attempt it rises up and lodges dangerously in a palm tree. A boy climbs up the tree and shakes it loose to fall on the ground below.  But at the second attempt, it soars up into the sky and far away.  The evening is completed with desert –cornstarch custard with mixed fruit…..an Indian favorite adopted from the British that Gerard enjoys for more than me.  I developed a permanent aversion after being fed too much lumpy custard mixed with canned fruit as a child.

Without evening discos and bars, Agonda continues to appeal to an older group like ourselves.  But I notice an influx of young people and with it the WiFi connected devices.  Back packers now also travel with a large screen Apple laptop. They seek out WiFi enabled cafes – of which there are several this year – and sit on Facebook, search the Internet or watch movies.  I can see how computers can be a useful ally for the solo traveler – an undemanding companion to hide behind when you’re eating alone in a restaurant among strangers.  But if so, then can’t they also be a too easy substitute – a wall between you and the opportunity to meet others when traveling?  We have both commented before about the impact of guidebooks.  As helpful as they are, they have reduced the need for face-to-face exchange of information among travelers.  Computers have now compounded this trend.